


Ocean Eyes

by tallestgirlonearth



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Based on a Billie Eilish Song, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Racism, M/M, Songfic, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:48:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25893916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tallestgirlonearth/pseuds/tallestgirlonearth
Summary: I've been watching youFor some timeCan't stop staringAt those ocean eyesor: Andrés comes to a realisation.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 11
Kudos: 48





	Ocean Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Well hello again, apparently I am so hooked on Berlermo that I constantly have plot ideas popping up in my mind....and sometimes I decide to follow through and actually write something.  
> Second fun fact, at least 70% of all my inspiration comes from music, which is why pretty much everything I've written could be classified as a songfic.
> 
> Also, I have borrowed the last line from a brilliant poem called "forty-eight hours in rome" to be found  
> [here](https://cashmeremammoth.tumblr.com/post/127497452776/i-you-choose-a-church-as-a-refuge-from-the-heat). All credit and love to the wonderful author, this poem makes me feel things. 
> 
> I hope you like this - if you do, a kudos or comment would make my day! I'm also happy to chat on tumblr @stars-and-meteors :)

“The eyes are the window to the soul”

This is a concept almost as old as humankind, so much so that even an avowed aesthete and bibliophile such as Andrés does not know its origin. Some say it stems from the bible, from Matthew writing that _the eye is the lamp of the body._

Recently, Andrés has spent a lot of time mulling these aphorisms over.

You see, he never had much love for them. They are imbued with an almost childlike fascination, a naїve belief that whatever you see inside, whatever is illuminated, is worth looking at in the first place. To him, it’s never been like that. All the people he met were dull and two-dimensional to him – whatever he saw in their eyes wasn’t enough to hold his interest. Most of the time their desires and wishes were visible even from a long distance, and completely uninspired…their meaningless, pedestrian lives, every step dictated, to hold a boring job, go home to a marriage utterly lacking in sparks, obstinately trying to squeeze fun and enjoyment out of the so-called “time off”, never truly succeeding, only to go back and do it all over again.

_Why would anyone want to shine a light on this?_

As for himself, well, if the eyes were windows, these windows could be closed. That is what he learned to do early on. Him and Sergio both, too different from the grey masses, so it was better that nobody could look into their eyes and glean any knowledge of the uncharted depths hidden behind their irises.

That is how he lived, and no bible verses or poetic musings could ever convince him to change his mind.

\---

Now, you ask, what has changed?

It’s a twist on the story as old as time: I met someone.

_Someone who is like me, but doesn’t hide the storm raging inside him. Even his eyes are the colour of an ocean._

The biggest upheavals in life don’t make much noise, so Andrés isn’t aware of what exactly happens to him. They meet in Berlin as potential business associates, discussing plans to strike the extravagant jewellery stores on the Ku’damm. The man introduces himself as Martín the engineer, with a Latin American lilt to his voice, no matter whether he’s speaking English or German. He’s talking about motion detectors, predetermined breaking points of glass, IP surveillance systems and whatnot – evidently too much for the others, because when the meeting is over they all go their separate ways, except for Andrés and Martín. They go through with the plan, they succeed, and they leave Berlin, and stay together.

The path to epiphany begins with the first time their bodies collide in a drunken dance. They are singing and shouting and laughing, arms around each other, holding each other up, and they are so close, that when their eyes meet Andrés is looking straight into a sea of blue. _Not the midnight sky of Van Gogh, not Monet’s water lilies, not the chinaware from Delft,_ his painter’s mind supplies. _Not azure, not cornflower, not sapphire._ He has gazed upon hundreds of paintings, but no words come to mind that would adequately describe what he’s seeing now.

Ever the student of art, he devotes a great amount of time to the study of Martín’s eyes. Their boundaries vanish, physical contact becomes commonplace and he draws him regularly – to be quite honest, it’s probably very unusual to put this much effort into capturing the colour of your best friend’s eyes, but Andrés is nothing if not thorough in his endeavours.

His second revelation comes when he witnesses some imbecile insulting Martín, calling him a worthless _maricon,_ a dirty _sudaca._ He has always known his friend to be less restrained in his emotions than him, but the rollercoaster of emotions he witnesses in the other man that night is something to behold. They inflict some pain on the little scumbag, of course, and when Andrés glances at Martín over the beaten body, his friend’s eyes are terrifying, merciless, a cold blue flame like burning selenium inside. Then, Martín falls quiet. At their apartment, he gets himself drunk with a single-minded focus, until his eyes are dull and grey, clouded over with pain that finally spills out like raindrops over Martín’s cheeks, as he recounts all the instances of bullying and hatred in his past. Martín’s sadness lingers and is amplified by shame when he wakes up and remembers his breakdown. Seeing his glossy eyes, not looking into his own, Andrés is gripped with a fierce determination to restore the sparkle in them, to make them sparkle for _him, and him alone._ He tells himself it’s natural to want to see your best friend happy, and doesn’t question his own motivations any further.

The last puzzle piece slots into place during what is supposed a holiday and a rebound heist spree in Greece, after the divorce of wife number four. Andrés has invited Sergio along, because he hasn’t seen his _hermanito_ in far too long…and because his wicked side enjoys seeing him flustered by Martín’s flirtations and brutal honesty. During the day, they soak up the sun at the beach or on a chartered yacht, visit museums and antique temples. In the evening, Sergio turns in early and leaves Andrés and Martín to wander the streets of the little Aegean towns, drunk on wine and on the heady summer air. It’s nothing out of the ordinary when it’s the three of them together, and yet Andrés feels different, this time around. The latest divorce has left him feeling bitter, more so than before, and he feels like his every sense is sharpened by disappointment, like he himself is a tightly-coiled spring waiting to _snap_.

  
It finally happens one night when Andrés and Martín take the scenic route back to their house on Santorini, walking on a winding path high up above the caldera. All the sun and good company of the past days could not completely chase Andrés’ bitterness away, and he finds himself captivated by the deceptively calm water, eerily illuminated by the moon, contemplating its depth and allure, embracing for a moment the aesthetic of it all, like a Turner painting.

“I know you said you felt like drowning your sorrows, but don’t take it literally, eh? My clothes are far too nice to get them wet.”

Martín’s soft voice, tone teasing but with an underlying seriousness, prompt Andrés to draw his gaze away from the abyss and towards his friend. Martín’s eyes are like a deep well – a dark midnight blue with flickers of molten platinum, his gaze open and unguarded, beckoning to Andrés to _come closer, take a look, get lost in their depths._

_He has been looking up, but feels like he’s falling._

Unmoored by the intensity of the emotions; everything he holds inside him but has never allowed himself to acknowledge; everything he feels for Martín that all his women failed to provoke in him. They are so alike, Martín and him, he’s always known that, it’s what has drawn them together from the start, but despite his engineer’s mind the other man doesn’t believe in decorum and restraint. He wears his heart, armoured though it may be, on his sleeve, he’s loud and expressive and unapologetic. And his eyes reflect it all.

_The sparkles of a diamond mind reflected in an ocean, sometimes placid, sometimes cloudy, sometimes raging with tempests. And he could never paint it to perfection because he shied away from the feelings, which have always been mutual, he didn’t want to come close lest they tear down the careful construct that is his life._

Notions of aesthetics, of artful seduction, of picture-perfect romance go flying out of the window. An all-encompassing clarity possesses him, like never before.

_He is my other half. His devotion is my salvation. And if I am to die, let me drown in him._

And it feels like a curse, or an omen - something too large to know.


End file.
